go the converse
by arabesque05
Summary: "For me, Sasuke-kun has always been Sasuke first and Uchiha second. And I know that-...That even if Sasuke-kun is not always nice, he can be very kind." A confession, a discovery, and watching the moonrise: spring is a time of beginnings. — Sasuke and Sakura, in the span of ten years: 'I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.'
1. the sunned mother of pearl

**go the converse**

* * *

**i. the sunned mother-of-pearl**

Sakura, like everyone else at school, has heard much of Uchiha Sasuke long before she actually meets him. Uchiha Sasuke's the type of boy who inspires gossip in perfect strangers. Everyone has something to say about him: how very handsome and very smart and very good at sports he is; top of his class and captain of the kendo team and the guy who always gets the most number of chocolates on Valentine's Day. Things are always 'very' when it comes to Uchiha Sasuke. Everything about him is ridiculously superlative: an impossibly romantic figure, like a Hikaru Genji stepped out from dusty classics, like he could not possibly exist in real life.

The negative space constructed from the rumors is like this: Uchiha Sasuke is never called 'kind'; and no one has ever seen him smile; and he never replies 'Good morning' to anyone; and he has no friends who are not in semi-religious awe of him. Still, thinks Sakura, absence of evidence does not mean evidence of absence; just because no one heard the tree falling does not mean it made no sound.

Sakura has an appreciative affection for Uchiha Sasuke, in that vague distant way one does with celebrities. She likes the fact that someone as handsome and smart and good at sports as he is exists. Sakura does not necessarily think herself ill-looking or stupid or entirely incapable at athletics; still, Sakura's existence is not an exercise in superlatives, the way Uchiha Sasuke's is. It makes her a little wistful. Sakura has always struggled for everything she is: poring over style magazines to determine the most flattering haircut for her facial structure; getting up early each morning to go running so that she does not place last during gym class track and field exercises; spending countless, countless hours in the library with textbooks and practice exams and study guides. Things do not come naturally to Sakura—not as they must for Uchiha Sasuke. Had Sakura been less cheerful a person or possessed a more impractical heart, she might have resented Uchiha Sasuke; as it is, Sakura only admires. How much easier, she marvels, must everything be for Sasuke-kun; how much happier.

—

Sasuke does not remember Haruno Sakura's name the first time they meet: in an introductory computer science class, seated next to each other during lab session. He does not remember it the second time either, nor the third. In fact, he gets by for a month and a half calling her variations on a theme of "Hey", or "You", or "Hey, you."

Partly, this is due to a lack of necessity: they do not see each other outside of class, and there is little reason to call her by name in class, where they do not speak to anyone else but each other. They've been assigned to be lab partners, after all.

Partly, too, this is out of disinterest: there is nothing particularly eye-catching about Sakura, beside the pale ruddiness of her hair. She talks too much—but most girls do, in Sasuke's experience. She is not so off-putting that Sasuke would make an effort to avoid her outside of class, but neither is she anything that would make him seek her out. (It is no reflection on her. It has been a very long time since Sasuke has sought anyone out.)

And yet: she is not a computer science major—Sasuke doesn't know what she is; she'd said something about commerce or management when she'd introduced herself, but he hadn't paid any attention—nor is she particularly good at the subject, but she's diligent and she pays attention. For all her overly-determined cheerfulness, she is not the unintelligent sort; and for all her romantic notions about whatever "handsome oppa" in the latest Korean drama she's watching, she is an academic at heart. Sasuke can deal with academic types. Usually, they turn out to be huge nerds, not so much interested in his personal life as in the difference between i++ and ++i compile processes.

So, a month and a half into their acquaintance, when she begins badgering him to exchange phone numbers with her, Sasuke puts up some minimal token resistance, grumbling about how "troublesome" and "annoying" it all is, but eventually relents. She has a point, after all, about being lab partners and possibly needing to meet up for the final project. They exchange phones: he puts in his name and phone number; she puts in her name and phone number and email address and birth date and a

ー( ´ ▽ ` )ﾉ

in the Notes section. They return phones: Sasuke scowls at her and she beams back.

"Annoying," he says.

Nevertheless, he looks down at the waving, happy smiling face, and remembers 'Haruno Sakura'.

—

Sakura's favorite rumors about Sasuke-kun are: his family descended from an old samurai line but is now steeped in yakuza alliances; he can never step foot in Shibuya without being swarmed by talent agency scouts; he'd bullied his way into graduate classes as a freshman, or perhaps it had been that he'd taught the graduate classes.

"I can't remember," she says, apologetically.

"Why the fuck," he replies, "do you even _have _favorite rumors?" Sasuke leans back in his chair and slants a withering look in her direction.

Sakura shrugs. She's not really sure why she'd started on the subject in the first place: only that it's terribly awkward to sit in silence while waiting for the code to compile, when they have been classmates for so many months; and there aren't many subjects Sasuke is willing to talk about. To most forms of popular culture, Sasuke demonstrates such abject indifference it borders on ignorance, as if he's never seen a television show or watched a movie or listened to any music ever in his life. Gossip about other people hold little interest for Sasuke, too: he's terrible at learning names, Sakura has discovered. (Not terrible, Sasuke denied: just unwilling. Whatever, thought Sakura: you still don't know anyone's name.) Gossip about himself seems their only common ground, and even then, Sasuke's interest is anemic at best. Probably, suspects Sakura, it's not so much interest as it is horror.

She says, "How do you _not _have a favorite? They're hilarious. They make you sound like something out of a shoujo manga."

"Hm," says Sasuke.

"Not," continues Sakura, "that you have ever read a single shoujo manga in your life."

"Hm," says Sasuke, again.

This is pretty much how talking to Sasuke goes. Sakura's not particularly bothered by it: 'Hm' is still acknowledgement, and more than he gives most people at that. 'Hm' is ambiguous enough that it might mean _Shut up; you're annoying _or it might mean _I suppose you're right_. Sakura, optimistic, usually takes it for agreement. Sasuke's never gone out of his way to disabuse her of the idea, in any case.

—

In the beginning, Sasuke remembers with something approaching wistfulness, Sakura was careful when she spoke to him. She kept conversation to class work; sometimes, she remarked on the weather. She was quiet. She called him "Uchiha-kun". She never pushed for a response. He never gave one.

Most people back off after a while. They learn that conversation with Sasuke isn't so much conversation as it is a monologue, that there's little difference between talking to Sasuke and talking to the wall. Except the wall doesn't call you 'stupid' every now and then.

Sakura, though—possibly Sakura goes home and talks to her walls, as a habit. Sasuke has never met anyone _so perverse_. A few months of steady disinterest has apparently assured Sakura that—that—Sasuke has no idea what Sakura has been assured of, but against all reason, she increasingly talks at him, without any need for input on his part.

One day, it's: "Oh, there's this really interesting article on pulsed terawatt lasers, about how it can channel light. Aren't you working in the robotics lab? I'll forward it to you."

Another day, it's: "This one time in middle school, I kind of went through a mecha phase. People are always surprised when I tell them. I think it's the hair."

Then it's: "I'm writing a paper on the comparative similarities between _The Tales of Ise _and _The Tale of Genji_—which, I know, is kind of simplistic once you trace them both back to Ariwara no Narihira—but I keep getting side-tracked by how totally bombastic the love affairs are. They're _fantastic_. It's like I'm watching one of Ino-chan's telenovelas."

Sasuke eyes her warily. He's never heard anyone compare _The Tales of Ise _to telenovelas: admittedly, he's never met anyone who has both read _The Tales of Ise _and also watches telenovelas. Vaguely, he feels like he should be offended on behalf of classical Japanese literature, but there had been nothing belittling in Sakura's voice. At a loss, Sasuke says, "...Stupid."

"Too simplistic?" asks Sakura, looking somewhat down-spirited. "I thought as much. It's not a very good subject for comparative analysis, is it?" She laughs a little at herself. There is something mundanely terrible about the laugh, like a papercut or tripping over shoelaces: Sasuke dislikes it.

It's none of his business, though. Her papers have nothing to do with him. He stares fixedly at the computer screen, watching output numbers scroll by in the terminal; he thinks about array indexing in heap sorting algorithms; he thinks about the syntax of memory allocation in basic C. It's no use. "_Miyabi_," he says.

"Eh?" blinks Sakura.

"Don't use Narihira as the connecting point," says Sasuke, somewhat resentfully. It's hateful, he thinks, that she has to be so demonstrably _misguided _about this, when she's usually so intelligent. What is Sasuke supposed to do but correct her? "Talk about the mutual demonstration of the _miyabi _aesthetic, in _Ise _and _Genji_."

"The _miyabi _aesthetic..." echoes Sakura, slowly, staring at him.

"Something like that," Sasuke scowls. There's an uncomfortable prickling along his neck. He's bothered with something he shouldn't have. "Whatever, it's not important. We're not done this code; focus on this first."

Sakura is still staring at him.

She says, "Thank you." And: "Sasuke-kun."

"No," he says. That is not okay. "No," he says again, and scowls harder at her, trying communicate in the expression everything unacceptable about her telenovelas and her bringing up Narihira and her calling him Sasuke-kun without invitation.

Sakura smiles at him. The _most perverse _girl in the world, Sasuke thinks.

She says, "I think we have an off by one error in the for loop." She says, "Sasuke-kun."

—

For all that Sasuke pretends like he has no interest outside of schoolwork, like his life is made of mathematics and algorithms and cognitive system designs, Sakura has seen the battered copy of _Kokinshu _he carries around with his textbooks, its spine cracked and the pages worn soft at the corners. "Who's your favorite poet?" she asks him, holding up the book. "In this?"

He refuses to answer, staring steadfastly at the computer screen though nothing is happening there.

"Ah," says Sakura, laughingly. "It's Komachi, isn't it? All the boys like Komachi—because she was crazy pretty—"

Sasuke eyes her balefully.

"—because she was an excellent poet," amends Sakura. She considers his glare, thinks for a moment, and says, "'_Submit to you—could that be what you are saying?_'"

He rolls his eyes (it's still a novelty, his obvious exasperation around her) and turns back to the computer screen. Sakura subsides, putting his book back in its pile. They are silent for a few moments, watching the cursor blink as they wait for the compile to finish. There's a fingerprint smudge in one corner of the computer screen. Sakura wonders whose it is; it looks too small to be Sasuke's, but too large to be hers. The cursor continues to blink, steady as a heart.

Sasuke says, suddenly, without looking at her, "'_If only there were no such thing as cherry blossoms in this world—'_**" **He stops, and gives a little huff of air, the whisper of a laugh. "'_The spirit of spring may have been ever tranquil_.'"

She stares at him, speechless for one long, breathless moment. (Possibly, this is what she likes best about him, more than his good-looks or intelligence or athleticism. Sasuke is not by any means a nice person, but he can be startling kind.) "Oh," breathes Sakura. "That's—that's. Is he your favorite, too?"

Sasuke says, bluntly as ever, "You're annoying."

"You said it prettier the first time," replies Sakura.

It is an almost imperceptible thing, like the first moments of dawn slowly unfurling; but Sakura, who has been watching Sasuke for a long time now, notices: his eyes curving and the corners of his mouth drawing up and something almost amused in the tilt of his eyebrows. It is not quite a smile, but it is very close to one. It is the loveliest thing Sakura has ever seen.

"Annoying," repeats Sasuke, not sounding annoyed at all.

* * *

**notes**: _kokinshu_, short for _kokin wakashu_, literally "collected japanese poems of ancient and modern times," is pretty much what it says on the tin, published in about 905. quotes are:

_submit to you —  
could that be what you are saying?  
the way ripples on the water  
submit to an idling wing?  
_-ono no komachi (tr. burton watson)

and

_if only there were no such thing as cherry blossoms in this world  
__the spirit of spring may have been ever tranquil_.  
-ariwara no narihira


	2. you own the universe

**go the converse**

* * *

**ii. you own the universe**

After finals, there is no reason for them to meet and Sakura accordingly expects to see little of Sasuke. They are in different majors, after all, and have few overlapping classes. But perhaps their habits are similar, and perhaps knowing him has made her more aware of him. She notices him at the library, scanning the bookshelves; she notices him at the bus stop, rooting through his backpack for his wallet; she notices him at the post office, buying postage stamps. Before, he might have been a shadow in the corner of her eye: momentarily arresting, because Sasuke has always been eye-catchingly good-looking; but no more than that moment's distraction. Now, though—she catches a glimpse of him and turns her head; there is a fluttering in her chest, as if her heart were waving hello.

"Sasuke-kun!" she calls out, and always goes over to greet him and ask how he has been recently.

He sometimes answers; more often, he gives her a look as if to say, _You, again_? Sakura finds it more endearing than she probably should. The moment of exasperation inevitably gives way: "Sakura," he says, and "Hello." It is more than greeting, for someone of so few words as Sasuke. It is almost welcome.

—

The weather turns cold, early frost misting her windows in the mornings. Sakura takes to buying tea from the corner coffeeshop in the mornings, more as a hand warmer than as a beverage. Sometimes, she runs into Sasuke there as well. He always has a coffee, black, and brioche with jam.

"I'm surprised," Sakura tells him, one morning.

Sasuke glances up at her, and then turns back to his breakfast.

Sakura takes a seat next to him at the counter. After a moment, during which he fails to tell her to leave, she continues, "I always figured you for the rice, fish, soup traditional-type. For breakfast, I mean. I don't know how I feel about you eating brioche."

He glances at her again, one brow raised.

"Yes, yes," she agrees, with a laugh, "it's none of my business. I'll be on my way, then. Good morning, Sasuke-kun!"

"Hn," he says, and she leaves him to his breakfast.

—

Sakura is shaking the rain water off her umbrella when Sasuke ducks into the cover of the bus stop, coming to stand next to her. He's out of breath and the shoulders of his jacket are damp. "Hello," says Sakura, surprised.

Sasuke looks a little surprised himself. "Hello," he answers. His hair is curling a little at the ends and, wet, looks darker than usual. Sakura feels almost as if she's stumbled onto something she wasn't meant to know—his hair curls when it's wet. What a strangely vulnerable thing to notice.

"Forget your umbrella?" she asks him, teasing lightly.

"Rubbing it in?" he returns, with a withering look.

Sakura laughs. "Surprising! I thought you'd tell me off for asking obvious questions."

"That's also really annoying," agrees Sasuke.

"How're classes this semester?"

"Fine," says Sasuke. He doesn't ask, _You? _But he doesn't look away either. It's invitation enough.

"This one professor I have," Sakura starts, "has just the strangest fondness for argyle. The other day, he was wearing—"

She's cut off by the loud engine rumble of the bus pulling up. Light from the headlamps on the bus cuts through the gloom of the rain and floods the bus stop.

"Yours?" asks Sakura.

Sasuke glances up at the bus number. For a moment, his eyes catch the light—brighter than the fluorescence of the computer labs, brighter than the early morning sunlight in the coffee-shop. Sakura notices that his eyes aren't really black.

"No," says Sasuke.

The bus pulls away. They're quiet for a moment.

Sakura says, "Your eyes are gray."

"Ah," says Sasuke, disinterestedly.

It's not entirely accurate. They're not so much gray as they are – like wet cobblestones, or rocks in the sea, or the sky during a thunderstorm.

"They're really pretty," Sakura tells him, and smiles at the way his shoulders draw up, hunching a little, bashful like a schoolboy.

—

Winter sets in with a vengeance. Sakura digs out her mittens from the back of the closet. She still sometimes stops by the coffeeshop in the mornings, though, to sit with Sasuke through breakfast. He never says much, but that's all right. Sakura doesn't mind the quiet.

A few times, she finds him buried in a copy of the newspaper. Sakura orders a cup of tea and chats a little with the cashier about the relative merits of the viennoiserie as opposed to the croissants, and deciding on the latter, takes her seat next to Sasuke at the counter. She eats her croissant and sips at her tea. She watches the early winter sunshine stream in through the storefront windows, the way it gilts the pastries on display, as if layering everything in honey.

A rustle of paper distracts Sakura from her contemplation. She glances over. Sasuke is pulling out a few newspaper pages from the rest. He tucks the separated pages together, and offers them to Sakura.

"That—" Sakura stares at the paper offered to her, and then at Sasuke. Finally, she says, "Thank you," and takes the paper.

Sasuke doesn't reply, returning to his reading. Sakura looks at him for another few moments, and then unfolds her newspages. Breakfast passes quietly, over tea and coffee and brioche and croissant; sitting next to each other, sharing a newspaper.

—

On New Year's, with the new year still only some twenty-minutes old, Sakura bundles herself into her coat and scarf and mittens and hat and goes to visit the shrine. It's crowded on the steps in front of the shrine gates, bumping and jostling inevitable. Sakura stumbles over a step and catches herself on the sleeve of the person in front of her. "I'm so sorry," she says, embarrassed.

The person turns around. It's Sasuke.

"Oh," says Sakura, startled. "I didn't..."

She pauses, taking in Sasuke's appearance. He's dressed in full formal kimono, impeccably elegant from the severe black of his haori to the pristine white of his tabi—but that's not so surprising, Sakura thinks. Of course Sasuke-kun is the type to observe such courtesies when welcoming in the new year. Sakura feels underdressed in comparison, in her jeans and overcoat and mittens.

"Apologizing already," sighs Sasuke. He slants her a wry look. "It does not bode well for us, to begin the year like this."

The line shuffles forward a little bit. Sasuke takes a few steps forward, and when they all halt, turns to her again. He inclines his head, deeper than she'd expected, and says very politely, "Happy New Year. This next year, please look kindly upon me."

"Oh—! Yes," says Sakura, bowing in reply. "Happy New Year to you as well. Please continue to take good care of me."

Formalities exchanged, Sasuke turns back toward the front. He stands on the step above hers. It gives him a few extra centimeters of height and the expanse of his back suddenly seems very broad and capable. A man's shoulders, thinks Sakura vaguely. Her eyes snag on the crest emblazoned on the back of his haori, a stark emblem against the solid backfield of black.

The crowd shuffles forward a few more steps. Sasuke pauses and angles his body slightly to the side; and just like that, there is space cleared next to him. It could not have been clearer had he actually said, "Come; walk with me." Sakura hurries forward.

"Did you watch _Kohaku _tonight?" she asks.

"No," he says.

"Ahh, well, spoiler: the Red Team won," Sakura tells him. "It was sort of a last-minute upset, too. I didn't expect..." Her eyes snag again on the family crests on his haori, two on the shoulders, two on the chest. There is something niggingly familiar about it. She frowns.

After a moment, Sasuke says, "Yes?"

"What?" Sakura asks.

"You didn't expect..." he prompts.

"Oh," says Sakura, remembering. "No, I was just surprised." She looks at the crest again. "Sasuke-kun," she says.

"Hm?"

"Your family crest," says Sakura. "That's a fan, isn't it?"

"Yes," he says.

"But, like—that's the Uchiha fan."

"...Yes," says Sasuke, sounding distinctly unimpressed. _Like my last name_, goes unspoken. _Like in history textbooks_, thinks Sakura.

"Okay, no, but—I mean, just because someone's last name is Takeda doesn't mean they have four diamonds as their family crest! I didn't—I didn't figure you were Uchiha like, _Uchiha clan _Uchiha."

"I see," says Sasuke, even more unimpressed-sounding.

Sakura stares at him. "Those bullshit rumors," she says in sudden realization. "About the samurai and the yakuza and the Shibuya scouts and the grad classes. When they said your family's descended from an old samurai line—that wasn't bullshit!"

"Hn," says Sasuke, a hard light coming into his eyes. Almost as if he were daring her to ask.

Sakura asks anyway. "Holy fuck, what _else _is true? Did you really teach a graduate class!"

"I—" Sasuke's eyes widen. "Grad class?" he says faintly.

"Yeah. They said maybe you taught grad classes as a freshman—"

Sasuke is laughing. He laughs soft and whispery, as if his laughter were a secret between just the two of them. "So, between all the samurai and yakuza and talent scouts in Shibuya, you want to know if I'd taught graduate classes." He looks at her, the warmth of laughter not yet faded from his expression. "Sakura," he says, after a moment, "You huge nerd," and there is something almost approximating fondness in his voice.

—

He won't tell her, what graduate class he taught or if he has at all—despite all her prodding while they wait in line, not even after they say their prayers and get their fortunes and are preparing to leave. "Hmmmm, I wonder," is all Sasuke says, with an ill-concealed smile, when Sakura asks again.

It's the closest to playful she's ever seen him be.

"Are you going home, after this?" she asks, as they make their way back down the front shrine steps. It's much faster going than it had been on the way up.

"Yes," says Sasuke.

"Oh," says Sakura, feeling reluctant to say goodbye. She glances down the street, and makes a decision. "Can you wait? Can you make a ten minute detour?"

Sasuke considers her, and eventually shrugs his shoulders. "All right."

She takes him to the convenience store down the street. "I never sent you a New Year's postcard," Sakura says, heading for the card aisle.

"I didn't, either," he replies, wandering between the aisles in the store, browsing with his hands in his pockets.

"You don't think we should?" she says. "We even did _hatsumode _together."

"By accident," Sasuke says. He picks up a bag of potato chips. "Buy this for me, instead."

"No, I'm getting you a card."

"Fine. Buy this for me, _too_." He comes up next to her, holding out the potato chips.

"I never thought you were so cheap," says Sakura, laughing, but she takes the potato chips. "How about that card?" she points.

"No," says Sasuke, and turns away. He calls over his shoulder, already wandering back down the aisle, "Nothing with flowers. Or herbivores. And don't dither—I'll wait outside."

Eventually, Sakura settles on a minimalist design, just "Happy New Year's" in clean calligraphy, and goes to the cashier's with the card and the bag of chips. When she exits the store, Sasuke is waiting just outside, as promised. She offers him the grocery bag. "Here," she says. "Happy New—actually, no, wait, wait, wait."

"What," sighs Sasuke.

"I have to write something on your card," explains Sakura, rooting around in her purse for a pen. She takes the card out from the bag, returns the bag to Sasuke, and looking around, goes to the store wall, using it as a surface. _Sasuke-kun_, she writes, in her neatest handwriting. Behind her, she hears the crinkling of bag foil, and then the crunch of potato chips being chewed. _Happy New Year! May your wooing of Ono no Komachi via deplorably often rereadings of her poetry be more successful this year! This humble person has not Komachi's skill with words; yet clumsy though she may be, she hopes to convey the sincerest gratitude in having met you. May she know such favor next year as well_.

"Okay," she says, turning back around and tucking her pen away. She holds the postcard out to him, and says, with a laugh, "My first letters of the year, Sasuke-kun. Accept them kindly, please."

He looks at the card, and then at her, and back to the card again. Then Sasuke heaves a great sigh, sounding extremely put-upon; he says, "Give me your pen," and shoves the bag of potato chips at her, and goes into the store. A couple minutes later, Sasuke comes back out with a grocery bag dangling from one hand. He hands it to her, and retrieves his bag of potato chips and her postcard as well.

"My first letters, too," he says. "And I'm not cheap. G'night." So saying, he ambles off into the night, the crinkling of the bag of chips trailing behind him.

Sakura watches until she can't see him anymore, and then peers into the bag he'd handed her. Inside is her pen and a postcard and a bar of chocolate. She takes out the card: on the front, he'd gotten her flowers, a branch of cherry blossoms in full bloom; on the back, without salutation, it reads_, Likely, you wrote something ridiculous and mocking in your postcard. Why do I put up with you? No doubt my ignorance will continue this year too._

_Oh_, thinks Sakura. She thinks: his hair curls when it's wet. She thinks: his eyes are gray. She thinks: His shoulders hunch when he's embarrassed and he likes it when breakfast is quiet and we read the newspaper together some mornings and he drinks his coffee black and he laughs like it's a secret and he writes terrible New Year greetings and he likes potato chips at midnight and—

He'd given her his first greetings, his first letters, and his first chocolate of the new year.

Sasuke-kun, thinks Sakura: Sasuke-kun, Sasuke-kun, Sasuke-kun.

—

It's stupidly easy, falling in love.

* * *

**notes**: _kohaku_, short for kohaku uta gassen, is a yearly music show hosted by nhk on new year's eve, where a red team and a white team of popular music artists compete against each other. takeda clan, an influential clan of the late heian period, which gave rise to such figures as takeda shingen and whose family crest was composed of four diamonds. _hatsumode_, the first visit of the year to the shrine.

reviews would be love!


	3. happy flowers from the mountains

**go the converse**

* * *

_thank you all for the lovely reviews._

* * *

**iii. happy flowers from the mountains**

The shoujo manga Sakura likes to read are full of love confessions made on a rooftop somewhere, or perhaps near a baseball field, and usually to the backdrop of a setting sun. It is a matter of aesthetics, Sakura understands, that the environment of the confession should be as lovely and romance-soaked as the confession itself; more practically, there's the matter of setting the mood. Nothing is quite so nostalgic, so full of pure-hearted youth, as empty basefields or quiet rooftops in the rosy light of sunset. They make the heart wistful.

Real life is never so convenient. After all, Sakura has no business going near the baseball fields, and the rooftop is off limits except to maintenance workers. Still, one spring morning, when the daffodils are beginning to push their way through the half-melted snow, she runs into Sasuke in a hallway near the electrical engineering classrooms. "Oh, good morning!" she says.

"Yes," says Sasuke. Half a year ago, he might have breezed on past her; now he stops and nods a greeting.

"I had fun at your kendo match the other day. Sasuke-kun looks really good in a hakama!" Sakura tells him, laughingly.

"Shut up," he replies, and thumps her lightly on the forehead with the spine of the books he holds in one hand. "I'm not inviting you again."

"No, no! Invite me again!" Sakura insists, and peers up at him from under the books: the easy strength in his broad shoulders, and the faint smirk drawing the corners of his mouth up, and the amused tilt of his eyes, dark and patient as he looks at her. There is nothing unwilling in the way he stands with her in an empty hallway, friendly teasing company. Sakura feels awash in a sudden flood of affection—and really, in the end, nothing makes her heart so wistful as Sasuke-kun.

"What?" he says.

Sakura takes a step back. "Sasuke-kun," she says. "Do you—" He looks back at her, arm slowly lowering. Sakura takes a breath. "Do you want—to get some tea? With me, sometime?"

Sasuke is still for a long moment. "Sakura," he says, finally. "Don't."

"Because, towards Sasuke-kun, I—" She's come this far; and even if he doesn't want to hear it—even if he doesn't want to hear it— "I like you."

"Sakura," says Sasuke, again. There is something terrible in the way he says her name, as if she had broken something expensive, or stolen something precious, or taken something that was _his _away from him.

It's answer enough. _It's__ no use_, thinks Sakura. But what had she been expecting? Sakura looks down at his shoes, at the scuffed tiles on the floor; she waits. It's best to do these things in full—for closure, if nothing else. For a long time, they are silent.

Then Sasuke sighs, more tired than regretful. Very clearly, he says, "I'm sorry." There is no hesitation in his words. "I don't feel the same way."

_Ah, _thinks Sakura, distantly: _a rejection. I've been rejected._

"No," she manages, with an impressive level of coherence. "I—it's all right. I'm sorry to have troubled you—I—Please don't mind me, then."

She can't meet his eyes. Sakura hurries past and leaves.

—

She tries to avoid him, of course. This ends up more difficult than Sakura had expected: Sasuke, after all, is not the sort to go out of his way because a girl might feel awkward; Sakura—well, Sakura has _class_, after all, and _homework_, and _projects_. It's one thing to have your heart broken; it's another to not go to the library.

After three days, though, of hurriedly ducking behind a bookshelf because Sasuke was coming down a neighboring aisle, or veering towards the book drop as he came out the front doors, or holding a book up in front of her face as he passed by her desk—Sakura gives up. She can't keep up this one-sided hide-and-seek; it's too exhausting.

She calls Ino, who had been the most fabulous bitch queen from hell in high school and also Sakura's best friend. Ino had taught Sakura how to put on make-up, and how to walk in high heels, and how to glare at boys until they knew that they weren't welcome; Sakura taught Ino calculus and let Ino copy her chemistry notes and made Ino history flashcards and quizzed her on them too. Ino, thinks Sakura, Ino-chan will know what to do.

"I could take you out clubbing," says Ino, a little dubiously. "But I'll have to refit your wardrobe first."

"I'm not looking for a rebound," protests Sakura. "Also, you're like two hours away; how am I supposed to go clubbing with you?" Ino grumbles a little. Sakura talks over it. "What are girls supposed to do when they've been rejected? Are there movies I'm supposed to watch? How do I make the whole awkward thing not awkward?—Because I don't know how to avoid him without avoiding the library, and I really can't avoid the library, Ino-chan."

"Forehead-girl," says Ino, "your priorities are fucked up." She pauses. "Are you sure you don't want a rebound? There are some nice guys I know, who I can—"

"Ino, the last 'nice guy' you set me up with was Rock Lee, all right, I don't—"

"There is _no one _nicer than Rock Lee."

There really isn't. "Five hundred nice guys are not as nice as Rock Lee," agrees Sakura. "But it's sort of like you set me up with five hundred nice guys, you know? I'm good."

"You big forehead," grumps Ino. "You don't appreciate what I do for you. All right, all right—fine, then. Go watch some terrible romance movies, see if I care. Eat your chocolate and paint your nails and—hey, do you want to cut your hair? You can cut your hair."

"It is getting kind of long," says Sakura.

So Sakura runs out to the convenience store: she stocks up on chocolate and ice cream and marshmallows. In the chips aisle, she stands still for a while and looks at potato chips—but New Year's was a long time ago. Sakura turns away.

—

Before, Sakura hadn't spent all that much time with Sasuke, so it isn't as if his absence has left a gaping, irreplaceable hole in her life. After all, Sakura still has her friends, and her classmates, and her schoolwork; Sakura is busy, and working, and that makes things a little better. But—running into him at the breakfast cafe, or stopping by to peek in on kendo practice, or reading the newspaper and wondering if he was reading it as well—those had made Sakura happy. Everything is somehow a little dimmer now; missing Sasuke hurts, in a vague, dull way that makes getting out of bed in the mornings inexpressibly harder.

—

Sakura cuts her hair: she feels light-headed afterwards, unused to missing the weight of its length. She eats chocolate, and ice cream, and marshmallows dipped in peanut butter; she watches old television melodramas, the kind where the girl secretly has leukemia and the guy is for several episodes almost the girl's brother, but everything ends well on a beach at sunset. Sakura cries over the beaches and the sunsets, at first, at the happy endings because it was such a long, circuitous route to get there; she keeps crying, because it seems easier to cry than to stop; and then Sakura is sobbing, because Sasuke-kun, Sasuke-kun—Sasuke-kun, who is tall and dark-eyed and handsome; Sasuke-kun, who is quiet and sharp-tongued and never wastes his words; Sasuke-kun, whose hair curls when wet and who reads his newspapers out of order and who drinks coffee for breakfast; Sasuke-kun, who said, "I'm sorry," like it was perfunctory, and "I don't feel the same way," like it was the truth, and Sasuke-kun, Sasuke-kun, Sasuke-kun—

Sakura cries, because sometimes there is nothing else to do.

—

It is not that things get better after that—but even if it is harder, Sakura still gets out of bed in the mornings. That must count for something. Sakura stops reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ears; Sakura is getting used to it. Sakura is getting used to a lot of things. Soon, she thinks, I will be able to say hello to him without embarrassment. Soon, she thinks, we can be cordial strangers again. He will like that, Sakura imagines; Sasuke, after all, has no use for frivolous things, for heartsick pining or girls' hearts.

So Sakura is surprised when Sasuke approaches her, one rainy afternoon, between the reference stacks in the library. "O-oh!" stammers Sakura, and immediately turns away.

"Sakura," says Sasuke. It isn't an accident, then, that he approached her.

She keeps her back turned, embarrassed.

"Are you still—" he says, and then stops. "What do you—" he tries, and then stops again.

Curiosity gets the better of her. Sakura chances a peek over her shoulder: Sasuke isn't looking at her. He is scowling blackly at the ground. His shoulders are tense, and there is frustrated impatience in the way he holds himself, so different from his usual detached ease. Somehow, he seems almost helpless in his ineloquence, unable to say all the things he would like. Sakura turns a little toward him. "Sasuke-kun—?" she ventures.

"What do you know about me?" he bursts out. He raises his head, glaring at her—angry. "Who is this 'Sasuke-kun' you've created, and liked?"

"I haven't created—!" protests Sakura.

"What do you know about me?" he asks again, barreling on with sudden vehemence. "What do you know about my family, and how I grew up;—and where I came from and what I want? How can you know Uchiha Sasuke without that?"

"Even if—"

"How can you like someone you don't even know?"

Sakura stares at him. He has tensed even more, hands curling into fists. He's angry, but Sakura has seen enough of disgruntled Sasuke and displeased Sasuke and annoyed Sasuke to know that he's hardly ever truly angry about things—it's always cover for something else. Sakura turns to face him fully. "You're right," agrees Sakura. "I don't know much about Uchiha Sasuke. But—for me, Sasuke-kun has always been Sasuke first and Uchiha second. And I know that Sasuke-kun dresses up for _hatsumode _and that Sasuke-kun's favorite poet is Narihira and that—... That even if Sasuke-kun is not always nice, he can be very kind."

"You're—" Sasuke presses his lips together, so tight they turn white; as if it were a restraint, as if he feared to say anything. At last, he hisses with savage bitterness, "I'm not!"

—But this time, he leaves first.

—

_What do you know about me? _Sasuke had asked her, almost like a challenge, almost like an invitation. Sakura does not know how to refuse Sasuke, even now. There are some things only he can tell her, but there are many other things she can find out herself: to start with, his family.

Sakura is by no means any sort of hacker, but she had expected a fair amount of digging necessary in her research. Instead, a simple internet search turns up a wealth of public records and articles from old newspaper archives. This is too easy, thinks Sakura, feeling uneasy, but she starts reading nonetheless. Sasuke's family was a high profile one, well-documented in news stories and society tabloids: his father the police chief superintendent, his mother a public prosecutor, his aunts and uncles and cousins so many all in the police force. Hardly strange, the articles opined: they were an old family, the Uchiha Clan, a family of samurai, with a tradition of loyalty and service. Protection was bred into their bones.

The early articles are mostly society fluff, op-ed pieces. These are followed by some more serious articles, discussing policy changes the police chief superintendent was implementing and court cases the public prosecutor was bringing to trial. Then come the articles alluding to rumblings of gang warfare; reports following the police investigation; and then a flurry of pieces from every sort of media outlet, all describing in exquisite detail just one night—a yakuza shootout and the massacre of the whole family—implacably listing names and ages and causes of death—there is coverage of the response of the emergency response teams, who arrived too late, and of the motivations of the different yakuza gangs, who inexplicably ended up working together, and of the different calibers of guns that were used that night, none of them the sort used by police—and at the end of all the articles, the mention of one survivor, a small boy, the younger son of the head family, injured but expected to make a full recovery, seven years of age—

Sakura slams shut her laptop in horror.

_What do you know about me? _Sasuke had asked.

—

Sakura doesn't know what to do with any of this: knowledge which isn't so newfound, now that she thinks about it—all the whispered rumors, _an old samurai line but steeped in yakuza alliances_; and from further back, a vague childhood memory of a televised funeral procession, the entire Ministry of Justice gone into mourning for a day. What does she know about Sasuke, really, if she didn't know even this—and yet, wonders Sakura, at the same time, what did this change?

Sakura loses herself in these ponderings, and only catches herself when she realizes that she has been for the better part of an hour staring at Sasuke, sitting two tables over in the cafeteria. He looks up, and catches her eyes.

Sakura hurriedly looks down at her katsudon lunch, cheeks flushing hot. _Sorry_, she thinks at him, _I'm sorry._

But several moments later, a pair of long legs enters her periphery, and when Sakura glances up, Sasuke is folding himself into the seat next to her. "Your lunch is cold," he says.

"I still like you," blurts Sakura. Sasuke freezes. Sakura, horrified, can't help but continue, "I'm sorry. I don't know how to stop. I tried to—I know you don't want—I'm sorry."

Sasuke is still for a moment longer, and then he mostly just looks pained. "Stop it," he tells her. "You—just stop. I can't—why did you —couldn't we just..." He scowls at her, aggrieved, as if blaming her for this surprising lack of eloquence and moreover, sudden verbosity. They are quiet for a beat. "Your lunch is cold," says Sasuke again, bitingly.

"Ah," Sakura pokes at her rice with a pair of chopsticks; it is cold, growing stiff. "Yes."

Sasuke regards her lunch for a while, a muscle in his jaw working. Then he raises his eyes to hers in a glare, apparently come to some decision. "Where are you?" he demands.

"What—?" Sakura blinks. "I'm...right here?"

"No, you're not," he says. "You're not _here_."

What does that even mean? Sakura eyes him warily. Where is she then, if not 'here'? Sasuke is looking down at her lunch bowl again, shoulders tense. He's said said something he didn't want to. Sakura thinks about how Sasuke-kun speaks, how he never asks for anything—how he never wants, never gives hint to discomfort; aloof, self-sufficient, cold. And yet, he was telling her that she wasn't there—no, he had said, 'here'. Here, where he was.

"Should I..." Sakura hesitates. "...come back?"

He scowls some more, but there is a loosening in his shoulders: as ill-humored as ever, but anxiety relieved. "Whatever," he mutters, still not meeting her eyes. Then, more clearly: "Do what you please."

—

Sakura has enough experience in avoiding-Sasuke-not-avoiding-the-library that she knows where his customary seat is located—by the third window, behind the chemistry reference bookshelf. After she finishes for the day, Sakura gathers up her things and goes to find him. He's hunched over the table, bangs pinned back and chewing thoughtfully on the end of his pen.

"Hello," says Sakura.

Sasuke looks up. With his bangs pulled back, his eyes look enormous and he appears, suddenly, very young. "Sakura," he says.

"Do you have a moment?" she asks. "I want to—if we could—"

"Yes," he says, and gathers up his books, and picks up his backpack, and follows her outside.

"I'm sorry," Sakura says, as they stop on an empty stretch of sidewalk. "I'm sorry that I avoided you. I was embarrassed, and a little hurt; but—Sasuke-kun is, to me, a good friend, and I shouldn't have—I didn't mean to...because Sasuke-kun is _still _a good friend, and I—I don't want to lose that."

"Ah," says Sasuke.

"And," continues Sakura. "Even if Sasuke-kun doesn't feel the same way, even if it's not reciprocated—" She looks up and meets his eyes; dark as ever, looking back at her. Sakura declares, "I'm glad that it was Sasuke-kun. I'm glad my first confession was to Sasuke-kun."

"Idiot," Sasuke grumbles, with an extremely put-upon sigh.

Sakura smiles, recognizing it for the act it is: after all, in his own fumbling graceless way he had missed her. He had asked her to come back. "Did you miss me?" she teases—little raw still, not as easily as before; but she's getting there.

"Like a cankersore," he replies.

"I've leveled up, then! Before, it might have been athlete's foot."

"Are cankersores are preferable to athlete's foot?"

"Well, you get over cankersores, don't you?" Sakura smiles up at him. "So we'll get over this."

"Oh?"

"Yes," says Sakura. "So—please be patient with me. I'll work hard." She clenches a fist, and raises it to show him.

Sasuke regards her quietly for several moments. Then he says, "Come along," and turning, strides away down the sidewalk.

Sakura hurries after him. "Where are we going?"

He glances at her over his shoulder. "I was your first rejection, right? It should be commemorated."

"...Don't buy me red rice."

He scoffs. "Alcohol, alcohol," he says.

"Ah—you mean commiserated, then."

Sasuke stops mid-stride, and wheels around to level a finger at her. He says, sternly, "Be grateful that you received your first rejection from someone like me. It is an honor." Then he turns back around and continues his way down the street. Laughing, Sakura follows.

—

Sasuke takes her to an out of the way bar, just outside of campus. Sakura knows her beers, but not her sake; Sasuke rolls his eyes at her about this, but is apparently otherwise unsurprised. "Uncouth," he calls her, and sets himself to her education, explaining the polishing of rice and the filtering process and—well, Sakura doesn't really remember any of it. Alcohol makes Sakura forgetful, just as it makes Sasuke didactic. They both get more than a little tipsy.

Afterwards, they half-stumble their way back to campus—that is, Sakura stumbles and Sasuke glowers at the ground and walks in the most absurdly straight line possible. Eventually, Sakura pleads dizziness, so they find a park bench to rest on. Sakura has passed the giggling phase of her drunken-ness; now, the alcohol only makes her feel very mellow. Tired, she lists in one direction. One of Sasuke's arms come up, and pulls her in the other direction—toward him. She ends up pliant against his chest, head on his shoulder. Sasuke slouches down, and tilts his head back. Sakura follows his gaze. They look up at the moon for a while.

"Sorry," says Sasuke, softly, almost into her hair.

There's really only one thing he could be apologizing about. There's only one thing he's ever apologized to her about. "It couldn't be helped," Sakura replies.

"I'm—I'm a reminder," says Sasuke, still in that hushed, too soft voice, quiet as starlight. "Everyday, when you see me. It will be painful."

"Hmm?" says Sakura, closing her eyes and sagging into him.

After a long moment, Sasuke says: "I moved away because—" He pauses. "My family house. I had a very large family, and living there—I always remembered—I...you looked it up, I guess?'

"...Yes."

"Of course you did." His chest makes a sudden movement, almost a laugh. "Haruno Sakura always first resorts to research."

"What," says Sakura, fuzzily.

"No," says Sasuke, slow. "It is not a bad quality." He falls silent again. And then: "Reminders hurt. So I'm—I'm sorry. If you didn't want to come back. That I asked."

Sakura doesn't say anything for a moment. She turns her face into his shoulder; he allows it. "Like I thought," she says, voice muffled, "You're very kind, aren't you?" They stay like that for a while. He looks up at the moon, and doesn't pay any attention to the hot wetness, seeping through the fabric of his shirt at the shoulder.

Eventually, Sakura lifts her head and looks at him. She says, voice still a little thick, "I made a confession and failed and yet, here I am, still. So—it wasn't really a failure, was it?" She swallows, and says, "It's—it's an honor."

"Ah," he says, low.

"And—even if it hurts. I think it will become a good memory; a happy memory."

The moon is pale and bright and lovely. Sakura rests her head back on Sasuke's shoulder; and they watch the slow moonrise together.

Sometime later, Sakura says again, "I'm glad it was Sasuke-kun."

She must have fallen asleep after that: dimly, as from a dream, she thinks he tells her, "Thank you." And there is the memory of movement, of a broad back under her cheek. She wakes up the next morning in her apartment, in wrinkled clothes but with her shoes pulled off. There is a glass of water on the bedstand, and two aspirin tablets.

* * *

**notes**: "red rice", or _sekihan_—sticky rice boiled with red beans, often served on special occasions to celebrate something.

reviews would be love!


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